Chapter Fourteen: Upheaval (Part One)

It was precisely because of that scolding that, when I returned to the school three days later, I found that Cha Wenbin had already dropped out. The reason, it was said, was that his adoptive parents had forbidden him to continue his studies, but in truth, it was Ma Sufeng. Once he learned of the incident, he realized that this child could no longer have the ordinary childhood that other children enjoyed.

Hong Village and Wulipu were two separate villages, never particularly close, so my connection with him was severed for many years. By the time I saw him again, his family had already undergone great upheaval.

Such, more or less, was my childhood. By the 1970s, the disaster known as the "Ten Years of Turmoil" had reached its climax, spreading from the great cities all the way to small villages like Hong Village. The Red Books and red armbands began to appear everywhere, and idle students and youths, eager to heed the call, started denouncing and persecuting so-called monsters and demons. Hong Village had only about a hundred households, but even the surrounding villages were swept up in the calamity.

My father had served as a soldier, so in the early years of the Cultural Revolution, our family was still considered revolutionary. I would trail behind the older boys every day, shouting all sorts of slogans. When I saw them rounding up the so-called "feudal capitalist-roaders" and "stinking intellectuals," pasting up big-character posters, I felt a strange thrill, never imagining that one day this disaster might befall my own family.

That year, I was fifteen. I had long since stopped attending classes at middle school. My mother had gone to my grandmother’s, and I was napping at home with my father. It was a sweltering summer noon, and just after lunch, I heard slogans ringing out from outside. The Red Guards were at it again, raiding someone’s house. If my father hadn’t forbidden it, I would have joined their ranks, become one of them. But my father called it nonsense, saying they were just a bunch of kids who knew nothing of revolution.

A crash of shattering glass jolted my father and me awake. Fist-sized stones began raining in through the windows. My father hurriedly grabbed a quilt, threw it over my head, and before we could make sense of the situation, we heard someone shouting outside: “Down with Old Man Xia! Drag the greatest villain of Hong Village out for public judgment! Down with Old Man Xia! Down with the poisonous scion of feudal superstitions!”

Hearing those words, my father’s temper flared instantly. He didn’t even stop to put on clothes; in nothing but a pair of red shorts, grabbing a kitchen knife, he charged out the door. He was immediately driven back by a hail of stones. Outside stood a crowd of Red Guards, each with a Red Book in hand and a red armband at the shoulder. Their leader was Yuanbao, also from Hong Village, three years my senior, with twenty or so young men at his side—all eager for a fight.

At that time, Yuanbao was riding high. It was said that the head of the county revolutionary committee had intentions of promoting him. He targeted my father because the elders said my grandfather had been a Taoist priest, and upon his death left behind a compass, which had then passed to my father. This, they claimed, was proof that my father was the heir to feudal and superstitious “Four Olds”—this was the first charge.

The second charge: the house my father built used bricks taken from what had been the village’s grandest “mansion,” and some architectural features, like the eaves and parapets, were adorned with birds and beasts—luxuries once reserved for landlords and aristocrats. For this, they accused my father of being a classic example of landlord-class hedonistic restoration.

My father was a forthright man, quick-tempered, with a reputation for speaking his mind in the village. He had publicly scolded the Red Guards more than once, calling them bandits and thugs cloaked in revolutionary rhetoric, and forbade me from associating with them. All of this had earned Yuanbao’s resentment. Determined to bring my father down once and for all, he tacked on another charge: Old Man Xia was not a demobilized revolutionary soldier at all, but a deserter, and went so far as to accuse him of being a Nationalist spy left behind.

Three such “crimes” were, in those chaotic times, enough to destroy a person. With support from the county, Yuanbao, though previously somewhat intimidated by my father, now emboldened by his string of “successes,” was wholly consumed by violence. He meticulously planned to raid our home with a group of young Red Guards three days later.

“Old Man Xia! Put down your weapon and cease your futile resistance. Behind us stands the great proletariat, the strength of the people. Kneel with your hands behind your head and accept the people’s judgment!”

But my father was not one to be intimidated. He was a man hardened by war, unflinching in the face of bullets and bayonets—how could a few boys frighten him? He grabbed a pickled vegetable jar from the corner and, with a great stride, hurled it at the mob, sending them scattering in terror.

“Get lost, you brats! Go home and drink your mother’s milk. A bunch of little bastards coming here to make trouble!”

With a crash, the jar shattered among the crowd, showering them in brine and leaving them in a sorry state. My father stood at the doorway, hands on hips, a gleaming kitchen knife stuck in his red shorts, glaring fiercely at them.

The Red Guards had always triumphed in the name of revolution, storming houses at will, never encountering resistance—especially not of this kind. And when my father lost his temper, he was truly terrifying: veins bulging, eyes wide and blazing, his face as black as thunder—like a figure from legend, fearless after the baptism of war.

Confronted with such a man, the youths lost their nerve, hiding behind Yuanbao, afraid to be singled out. But Yuanbao was now riding the tiger, unable to back down without losing face and his position. Yet, seeing my father’s stance, he lacked the courage to advance. So he tried a new tactic, shouting toward the house:

“Xiao Yi, on behalf of the Revolutionary Committee of the Proletariat, I have a directive for you. The organization believes you are not of the same ilk as Old Man Xia. We have investigated and found you to be a trustworthy comrade. Stand with us, denounce Old Man Xia, and expose his crimes. Do this, and I promise at the next criticism rally to testify for you and recommend you as deputy group leader for this district! Recognize the enemy, do not shield class enemies. Old Man Xia stands against the people today, and the people will not let him off!”

“Damn you!” I mimicked my father, grabbed another pickled vegetable jar, and hurled it at them. Though I lacked my father’s strength, and the jar landed short, the effect was the same.

Seeing his Red Book soaked in brine, Yuanbao suddenly shouted as if possessed: “They dare defile the sacred quotations—that’s rebellion! Today we must overthrow the Xia father and son, eradicate these local tyrants once and for all! Charge!”

These Red Guards were no weaklings—seventeen or eighteen-year-old youths, not empty-handed either. Besides their Red Books, they carried all sorts of implements—sticks, ropes, and one even had a dagger.

Perhaps their “revolution” had gone too smoothly, or perhaps Yuanbao’s rage reignited their violent fervor, but twenty-some youths surged forward, brandishing their weapons like a tidal wave.

And there we stood, father and son—a pair of Xias, my father in red shorts, I in black, two bare-chested men, kitchen knives in hand, not so much as a furrowed brow between us, standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting...

With a sickening thud, blood spurted from Yuanbao’s shoulder—my father’s knife had struck him just as a club crashed down on my father’s head, drawing blood as well. However fierce Yuanbao was, he was still a child, unused to true violence; he nearly fainted from terror, screamed wildly, and bolted, clutching his shoulder, forgetting all about his “revolution.”

My father drew his knife back, the cold blade flashing again as he struck down another attacker. I saw those swaggering Red Guards, who usually strutted about the village, now dropping their sticks, helping each other as they fled for the gate, wailing like ghosts, while my father and I, knives in hand and barefoot, gave chase...

We pursued them for two or three miles. At the village entrance, my father, covered in blood and clutching his knife, stood surrounded by crowds who had come to watch, encircling us three times over. The youths were now trembling with fear, though their mouths still spat insults.

“Old Man Xia, you just wait!” Those were Yuanbao’s final words. My father raised his knife to strike again, but several people held him back. The villagers shouted at the Red Guards: “Why are you still here? Waiting to die?” Seeing someone finally intervene, the youths seized the chance and ran off, cursing as they went, fleeing Hong Village—no doubt to fetch reinforcements.

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